The Pavlovian Response
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Gibbs' problem isn't that he doesn't understand women, it's that he doesn't understand not all women are the same. Gibbs/Rebecca.


_a/n: by anonymous request - (and i apologize for the title that sounds like a big bang theory episode)_

_i was going to wait until actual Valentine's Day, but ... obviously I didn't. imagine this is in the very early stages of their marriages, as in like, maybe they had a january wedding. _

* * *

He got home from work feeling somewhat smug; he'd purposely marked the date so he'd remember to acknowledge it, and he refused to be thwarted by a scorned woman this time. He strolled in the front door with a heavy brown paper bag tucked under one arm; he slammed the door loudly, looking around the slightly home-y looking living room; his second wife wasn't exactly Susie Homemaker, but she did like rugs – and knit blankets, and colours.

She was also, inexplicably, able to light a fire – something his first ex-wife had always asked him to do. For some unfathomable reason, one practical thing she knew how to do was light a damn fire – he figured she must have had some wild pyromaniac phase.

"Rebecca?" he yelled.

He heard a door slam, and she came out of the kitchen, brows raised.

"You're home early," she said – but in a vaguely observant tone, rather than nagging or insolent. She caught her tongue between her teeth and smirked at him. "Call me and warn me," she laughed. "What if I was trying to have an affair?"

"What're you doing in the basement?" he asked, ignoring her.

"Painting," she answered, lifting up her hands.

There were dried scuffs of colour all over her palms and fingers; he came forward closer to her, taking off a pair of gloves and shoving them into his pockets. She tilted her head to the side and pursed her lips; his kissed them obligingly. She reached for the paper bag, and tugged on the opening. She pulled back and gave him a sly look.

"What's this?"

He smirked and took the bag, bunching it up and pulling out a generous, unopened bottle of Bacardi 151, and presented it to her.

Rebecca stared at it, and looked up at him, taken aback.

She took it from him, admiring the label, and then retreated to the couch, sitting down and running her hands over it – he knew it was her favorite liquor; he also knew she usually bought cheaper stuff to keep this kind special. She tilted her head at him, tossing her silken, light red hair back. She seemed amused.

"What did you do wrong?" she asked, laughing at her own jest.

He shrugged.

"Nothin'," he retorted smugly. That was the point – he hadn't done anything wrong, because he'd gotten her something. "Figured you'd prefer that to chocolates."

She furrowed her brow at him and snorted.

"Chocolates?" she repeated. "Why would I get chocolates?" she murmured flippantly, turning the bottle over and reading the description on the label with a prim smile.

He stood near her, looking down at her confidently.

"'Cause it's Valentine's Day," he announced proudly.

Rebecca looked up at him, one darkly penciled eyebrow shooting up in surprise. She stared at him a moment, and then held up the rum, swirling around the liquid.

"You got me a present because it's February 14th?" she asked, her face guarded – he couldn't tell if she was touched or –

"Why would you do that?" she snorted, bursting out laughing. She shook her head. "Are you goin' soft on me, Jay?" she drawled, looking back down at the rum.

He glared at her, consternated. The last time he had failed to recognize this holiday – he'd been snipped at – the last time he failed to make note of this first holiday with his wife, he'd been given the cold shoulder – and now he did, and Rebecca was –

"You're such an idiot," she laughed, looking up at him. She reached over and pressed her knee into his thigh affectionately. "I love you."

She was mocking him.

He stared at her a little longer, and then sat down heavily – well, maybe he should have expected her not to care about a silly commercialized holiday; Rebecca didn't care about anything.

He threw himself back against the couch, gritting his teeth; he'd gone out of his way for nothing – she wouldn't have been mad at him – and suddenly he had a sneaking, ironic suspicion that this was how Diane had always felt.

Rebecca broke the seal on the bottle and opened it, waving it in front of her nose. She inhaled, and then she leaned back with him, taking a shot-sized, long sip of the liquor. She winced and rested it between her legs, turning her head. She looked at him for a moment, and then smirked.

"So, what the hell did she do to you?" she asked.

He grunted.

"Who?"

"Your ex-wife," Rebecca snorted. She waved her hand at the bottle. "The one who trained you to have a Pavlovian response to holidays?"

Gibbs turned his head, and glared at her; Rebecca parted her lips, and laughed.

"I didn't get you anything," she said, affecting a fake simper, with big, wide blue eyes, "but I can get drunk and let you do nasty things to me, if you want."

He shook his head, grinning, and slipped his arm around her shoulders; he pulled her over and kissed the grown of her head – and she lifted the expensive, high-end bottle in a cheerful toast to his thoughtfulness.

* * *

_i'm not a woman who really cares about holiday extravagance, but that doesn't mean women who do are crazy or wrong. and i'm choosing to continue characterizing rebecca as a 'devil-may-give-a-shit' person, and Diane was clearly not that._

_also, bit of cruel foreshadowing here - having an affair, Rebecca? :D _

_-alexandra  
story #248_


End file.
